Structure structure structures. Boil me in hot peanut oil, see whee we turn to find a grocery store. Bright plastic packages, just trying to be sold. Thats all.
Under mutant skies a beside a blessing country that wished it knew better, but was so glad to be dying, for the boring part to be over. My gun was for feet long and my soul bite sized, fun sized, just big enough to count every tick of the second hand. I breathed cool Cesium site, and my nights were hot with fear and fight. I laid them down to sleep.
Wife's and mother fuckers and wee little children of the bureau of death, a Lewin of middle aged zombies turned godlike one and all by green light, by high tall glowing towing clouds
I lay them down to sleep, and still do, and hope when they pay me back, I'll get fucking coffee, a piece, and may be a book to read.